


no escape route

by orphan_account



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sixth Form, Cheating, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Past Abuse, Unrequited Love, most of them are ooc but watch me not give a fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-02 05:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14537337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Why do you always look at me like you hate me?” Ralph asks him.He speaks with such indifference that Jack isn’t even sure he’s listening.“Because I do,” Jack says, and it is a lie. It scalds his tongue like too-hot coffee.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i only wrote this because i was bored and i wanted to contribute to the lotf fandom, seeing as it's dying. RIP

Jack’s first ever exchange with Ralph Griffin isn’t particularly life changing.

It is November. A blonde boy leans across the table and says, “Excuse me, can I borrow your pencil?”

Jack reluctantly gives over his pencil. Ralph throws an indifferent sort of, “Thanks,” over his shoulder, spoken with the thinly veiled apathy of people who don’t genuinely care for your existence, but in fact care for the fact you happened to have something they need.

Jack thinks about that sometimes. If he hadn’t been in possession of a pencil that day, Ralph would have just been another nameless face in his life.

Ralph hands him his pencil back, not bothering to voice his feigned gratitude for a second time.

It doesn’t start right there and then. There isn’t anything particularly magnetic about Ralph’s face - his sharp jaw, blue eyes and self-assurance are common characteristics of all of the rich kids. All of those kids saunter into college smelling of expensive cologne and nattering about their recent adventures abroad. Jack hates every single of them.

This particular rich kid is nothing special. Not yet.

Meanwhile, Jack lets the feelings stew comfortably in the pit of his stomach. There isn’t really much time to let a mild dislike of Ralph to dictate the way he lives.

“Why do you always look at me like you hate me?” Ralph asks him.

He speaks with such indifference that Jack isn’t even sure he’s listening.

“Because I do,” Jack says, and it is a lie. It scalds his tongue like too-hot coffee.

All Ralph replies is, “Okay.”

He hates everything about him, from his neatly trimmed hair and his crisply ironed uniform and his throwaway _Thanks._

It is a toxic feeling, pulling his chest tight, knotting his stomach together until he feels sick.

He _does not like Ralph Griffin_.

Perhaps that’s why he’s so annoyed about the infatuation which creeps up on him. Thick, ugly strands of emotion grab hold of his ankles and tug him down, further and further until he is waist deep and stuck. His interest regarding Ralph is quicksand; the more he struggles, the deeper he sinks.

Jack is always three steps ahead of feelings, cold and calculated, watching other people stumble into sticky traps which leave them heartbroken.

At some point, he must’ve gotten preoccupied and fallen right into the exact same trap.

And it isn’t a fun game to play. It is not how it’s portrayed in the movies. There are no picturesque dates or unifying kisses. Jack doesn’t shyly smile at Ralph from underneath his eyelashes, doesn’t press lingering touches to exposed skin and most certainly doesn’t strike up conversation. Any words exchanged between them are all jagged pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit together. Ralph will only plaster on a smile if he needs something, tossing Jack that familiar _Thanks_ as he takes what he needs.

Jack has fallen into the horrible trap of feelings, and there’s no escape route.


	2. Chapter 2

Jack becomes aware of Roger Miller’s existence at a wedding. His mother pokes his arm with insistent, skinny fingers and uses the same fingers to point to a boy around Jack’s age. He is stood beside a muscular man and a frail woman, both with inky hair and pale skin. At least this boy has the fortune to look somewhat alike to his parents, whereas Jack’s family couldn’t possibly blend in, not even if they tried. With Jack’s red hair and freckles, it is painfully obvious he is not their product.  _ Adoption  _ is never mentioned, although it is flashing through people’s minds when they take a glimpse at him.

“Never met him before,” Jack replies, looking away before the weight of Jack’s eyes catches the boy’s attention.

“He goes to the same college as you,” his mother adds. “His name is Roger.”

She says it confidently, expecting Jack to snap his fingers and realise that,  _ oh,  _ he  _ did _ know this boy after all, all he needed was a little reminder.

Instead, he just eyes the buffet longingly.

Eventually, she relieves him from her scrutiny and returns to scanning the crowd, alternating between overly fake hellos and sour glances.

Later that night, Jack escapes to the smoking area. He does not smoke. It’s just an excuse to escape, but he feels especially childish as he sits there, nothing to occupy his fingers except the chilling wind. The absence of the sun brings around a horrible sort of cold, one which is bearable at first, a welcome change from the stuffy dancefloor but eventually grows unpleasant. 

“Do you need this?” a voice interjects, so quiet that Jack barely catches the words.

He sees the dark shadow before he sees the person. Roger appears to look much the same outside as he does inside, but as he gets closer, his earlier discomfort is now obvious. When he had been standing with his parents, Roger was stiff-spined and trapped. Outside, there’s an untamed look in his eyes, hair slightly wilder and tie loosened.

In his hand, he holds a green cigarette lighter. In his other hand, he holds a cigarette. Jack isn’t sure which one he is being offered.

“No,” Jack says.

Roger looks entirely unfazed by his curt answer. A few seconds pass before his face is thrown into an orange glow by the illuminated tip of the cigarette. Jack wonders how he can smoke whilst his parents wait for him inside, but after a few seconds of mulling the solution over decides that it isn’t his problem. Quite frankly, even if it grows to be his problem, he wouldn’t care. 

The silence slowly edges over the line between uncomfortable and suffocating. The line is very thin, easy to miss, and Roger remains serene to let it drag on.

“How old are you?”Jack says, mainly for the sake of talking. His voice feels hoarse from disuse.

“Seventeen.”

“Right.” Jack feels curiosity nag at his stomach. “Apparently we go to college together,” 

“Apparently,” Roger replies, simply and evasively.

“Do you know me?

Slowly, borderline lazily, Roger shakes his head.

“Do I know  _ you _ ?”

When Roger replies with the same shake of his head, Jack bristles. He doesn’t like being the one who does all the talking.

“Well, why not?”

“Moved here not long ago. Parents wanted to get away from the city.” Even through the darkness, Jack can tell he’s frowning, bitterness creased deep into his skin.

“What’s wrong with the city?” Privately, Jack thinks that the city sounds miles better than here, a small town with no life and barely any connections to the outside world.

“You tell me.”

Roger sits down next to him. Their elbows brush.

Jack decides that he doesn’t hate this boy.

It is a flowery feeling, letting his muscles relax, his brain pleasantly detached from reality as it blossoms.  

 


	3. Chapter 3

It begins uncertainly. Roger starts to sit with Jack in the cafeteria, picking at Jack’s food. Maurice is sometimes there, eagerly trying to impress Roger with goofy remarks, but he’s not around often. Jack prefers it that way. He can tell that Roger does, too. It’s becoming gradually easier to decipher him, although there are a few mannerisms which Jack can’t seem to work out. Usually, they sit in silence, just enjoying each other’s company.

After their brief meeting at the wedding, Roger had been everywhere. He was sometimes in the cafeteria, buying those energy drinks which make Jack’s hands shake, or in the library, eyes indifferently scanning the shelves. Occasionally, he was sat in the student break room amongst a group of boys, but not partaking in any conversation. Jack always tried to make eye contact, but Roger never seemed to notice. He seemed constantly distracted by his own thoughts, always troubled by something. Jack found himself wanting to smooth the frown creases from Roger’s forehead, decipher the clouds of curiosity in his eyes. He always seems to be angry about something.

Five days after their first meeting, after he had abandoned any hope of pursuing a friendship with Roger, the universe decided that ignoring each other simply won’t do. Jack was walking, minding his own business, when a hard shoulder collided into his own. He turned, barbed insults on his tongue, but was greeted by the sight of Roger. 

Once Jack stopped relying on chance to see Roger, there became less time between each chat, and Roger became a part of his life  _ outside _ of college too.

Jack has never liked routine. It handcuffs him to a set of rules, confining him to certain things and certain times. He doesn’t like that. It’s boring. Yet, he likes the routine which him and Roger have fabricated. It’s something like friendship, even though it’s never been officially recognised by either of them.

They do everything friends do. Jack spends some days after school lounging around on Roger’s living room floor, absentmindedly watching some shitty American sitcom whilst the other boy flicks through revision notes. Roger comes around a few times, but Jack’s Mum is always loitering in the kitchen, and Roger’s house is empty until his Dad gets home at seven.

“There’s something strange about your friend,” his Mum says, watching the door where Roger had just left. “I can’t place it.”

“He’s just quiet.”

“He’s just a teenager,” his Dad interjects. “They’re allowed to be assholes for a few years. They blame it on the hormones.”

His mother stares at the door for a few more moments, before sighing and saying, “Oh, well. I’m glad you have a friend now, Jack.”

Jack wants to remind her that he  _ has _ friends - he has Maurice and Ralph and if he’s pushing it, he also has Robert. 

Instead, he just says, “Yeah. Me too.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

By the time his birthday rolls around, all apprehension has faded. Jack wakes up to many happy birthday notifications from distant relatives and a few acquaintances, but the only one which makes him stop scrolling is a quick  _ happy eighteenth tosser  _ from Roger.

The fact his eighteenth birthday has landed on a Thursday, when he has History early morning and English Lit all throughout the afternoon, is very unlucky. Ralph wishes him a happy birthday with a smile, and Jack graciously returns it, thanking him with a little more passion than is needed. A few more people wish him a happy birthday. Most of them are unfamiliar. He recognises one of them as one of Ralph’s secondary school friends, so he tries to say thank you, but the kid has already walked away. Vaguely, Jack remembers him being called Simon. He’s quiet. Jack’s never even spoken to him properly.

At some point during the day, Maurice corners him. As usual, he’s overflowing with ideas, brimming with excitement about some  _ amazing _ house party which they _ can’t miss  _ because it’s going to be the  _ party of the year _ . He also insists that Jack’s birthday weekend has to be action-packed. There can never be a dull moment. It’s his eighteenth, after all, and he can buy the rest of them drinks.

“What do you wanna do then?” asks Maurice, looking slightly discouraged by Jack’s automatic denial, but still not dropping his smile. That smile has remained exactly the same since Maurice was thirteen. The gap between his front two teeth has shrunk a little, but never enough to disappear, and it gives his smile a nice imperfection which makes his smile easy to recognise.

“Don’t know,” Jack replies honestly. He’s not sure what he wants to do. However, he’s pretty sure a party isn’t at the top of the list. Especially not to one of these shitty, anticlimactic college parties.

Jack’s preferred plan would be to spend his Friday night in front of a television screen, inhaling the second-hand smoke which he’s come to associate with Roger. Perhaps, after several hours of drinking, he might even think to invite Maurice. In turn, he would invite the rest of the group, including that new Percival kid, and they might have an alright time. It wouldn’t be a terrible birthday.

“Ralph’ll be there,” Maurice says, his eyebrows raising, as if it’s some huge secret that Ralph Griffin is attending a college party.

For his general ignorance, Maurice caught on fairly quickly with the whole thing. Maybe he doesn’t know all the details, but all he knows is that Jack likes Ralph more than the feelings are returned. People know that Jack and Ralph have an unexpected friendship, but nobody knows. Not properly. Not about how Jack fancies him so badly that it feels like something is sitting on his chest, constricting his airways, stopping him from being able to function like an actual human being.

“And?” Jack replies irritably.

Maurice shrugs, still looking slightly put-out. Jack always tries to keep his bitterness internal. A distant part of himself wishes he could actually like Maurice instead of just deal with him, and he always tries to summon his thirteen-year-old self, the person who enjoyed the constant goofy conversations.

“I’m not going, alright?” he adds, softer this time, something similar to sympathy rising in the back of his throat.

After Maurice leaves, somebody else replaces the space beside him. Jack looks sideways with the inkling of a smile already on his face.

“Happy eighteenth, Merridew,” his friend greets.

“You smell like fags.”

“S’what happens when you’re a smoker,” mumbles Roger, shifting until he’s sat comfortably, slouching with his arm hanging over the back of the chair.

“When did you start?” Jack asks.

Whenever divulging personal details, he becomes stiff. It’s so different from his usual relaxed attitude. Jack can’t help but stare at the rigid line of his clenched jaw, the tension in his arms, the slight twitch of his fingers. But Jack doesn’t take it back, or apologise. He never has done before. Instead, he keeps his eyes trained on Roger until he gets an answer.

He’s half expecting Roger to not say anything, but with great hesitance, the boy replies, “Fifteen.”

That’s not mind-blowing. Roger has that deviant look about him. Even when he’s sat perfectly still, it looks like he’s plotting something, conspiring against everybody, ready to wreak havoc at any given moment.

“Why?” Jack asks, ignoring the dispassionate stare he receives.

“Wanted to.” Slowly, Roger’s tension melts away, and he’s relaxed again. The focus is no longer on him as Jack returns to flicking through his history essay.

After that, silence descends. It’s not suffocating or awkward. It’s just peaceful. Spending years with Maurice as company really makes you appreciate the bliss of quiet. Jack lets himself get lost in his work, flicking the pages nonchalantly, only catching the irregular bounce of Roger’s knee from the corner of his eye. Whenever the other boy isn’t holding something, he twists his fingers together, as if he can’t stand staying still. He never is still. Even if he’s not moving physically, his eyes are flickering insistently, thousands of words behind his eyelashes.

“It must be my turn to ask a question,” interjects Roger.

“Turn?” Jack repeats, his voice humoured in mimicry. It’s such a juvenile thing to say. Only Roger could make it sound ominous.

“It’s always me answering your questions.”

Sensing a challenge, Jack turns so he’s facing Roger. “Go on, then.”

Roger tilts his head to the side, fixing Jack with a calculating stare. He looks like a cat with wild, narrow irises and upturned eyes. Right now, as Jack tries not to be the first to break the stare, the boy next to him looks predatory.

“What’s your biggest fear?” Roger asks eventually.

Furrowing his brows, he manages a small, “What?”

“Biggest fear,” repeats Roger impatiently, a spark of sarcasm lighting his eyes up. It’s only momentary. They descend back into darkness soon after, that determined intensity burning holes into Jack’s own eyes.

“Not being in control,” he replies, after juggling around a few other possibilities.

This is far too intimate and friendly for the fucking student break room. It had taken him months of friendship with Ralph to admit _anything_ similar, and even then, they were alone. Nobody was loitering around. And yet, here Jack is, spilling his biggest internal conflicts to somebody he’s been friends with for three weeks.

“Mhm,” Roger says wisely, running his teeth over his bottom lip, as if he could have guessed that already. Jack sighs.

“There’s no point in telling you, though, is there?” he says. “You can like … read minds or some shit.”

A smile tugs at Roger’s lips. “You don’t exactly need to be able to read minds to figure that out, Merridew.”

Jack coughs, failing miserably at his attempt not to meet the gaze being thrown his way. Eventually, he succumbs to the pressure. Life stills around him for a few scary seconds. The group of first-years clumped by the opposite table are just a blur. Giggles from the gossiping girls somewhere behind them are drowned out, reduced to nothing but distorted noises.

“You been studying me or something?” Jack says. The agitation melts from his voice mid-sentence. Instead of the sharp, wounding comment he’d prepared, it comes out more like an actual question, his voice all soft.

“Course. You’re fascinating,” Roger replies. It’s a joke. Must be. However, Jack can’t help but notice the element of emotion tangled in with the sarcasm.

He seems to recognise this, too. A slip up from somebody as collected as Roger is a rarity. He looks slightly annoyed at himself as he straightens up, checking the time and clearing his throat.

“Is it my turn now?” Jack asks, deflecting any emotion wheedling its way into his system.

“It would be. If you weren’t late for English.”

Jack looks at Roger, then at the time.

“Fuck.” He shoves all of his folders into his bag in one swift motion, stumbling slightly in such a rush. “Shit. Uh – come round later or something, yeah?”

Jack doesn’t have time to wait for a response. He rips his eyes off of him and runs to his lesson, Roger’s words carved into his mind. They are all he thinks about as he falls into the classroom, ignoring the panicked head turns from his English classmates. Even when he receives an amused smile from a familiar blonde several seats away, it doesn’t overpower the gratification, or pride, or whatever this is, that is pounding through his bloodstream from two words.

_ You’re fascinating. _

Later on, when he and Roger are half watching television, half conversing and drinking, his curiosity trumps his pride.

They are sat on Roger’s sofa, side by side. He’s barely drunk, yet this question has been stewing all afternoon, and the slightest relaxation is enough for Jack’s resolve to crumble.

“Am I actually?” Before Roger can make a sardonic comment or even raise his eyebrows in that infuriating way, Jack quickly includes, “Fascinating. Like you said earlier.”

It takes a while for Roger to figure out what he’s even talking about. He obviously didn’t cling onto meaningless comments and spend two whole periods assessing them. To him, the conversation was probably nothing more than a quick chat.

“Oh. Right. I was just kidding,” Roger says blankly. “I don’t actually watch you.”

“Didn’t mean that,” mumbles Jack, glad that it’s too dark for Roger to notice the blush spreading over his cheeks. “I meant, like, am I interesting?”

Maybe he’s still all knotted up over Roger telling him that he’s easy to read. Even two whole weeks afterwards. It implies that he’s boring and nothing more than a narcissistic college kid with control issues. Or maybe it’s the slight giddiness from the alcohol.

“Yeah,” Roger says eventually, after taking a long drink. “You’re interesting.”

It shouldn’t please him as much as it does. Right now, the pride which seems to have buried itself away, screams at him. Seeking validation is pathetic. Makes him seem like an eight-year-old. And, to Roger of all people, he’s supposed to be showcasing just how strong and independent he is. He wants Roger to see that he doesn’t care. He wants somebody to appreciate him and worship him and like him. 

“You’re different than I expected,” elaborates Roger, somewhat reluctantly.

“What did you expect?”

“I dunno,” he admits. “Just not … not this.”

“Not what?”

Jack’s not sure why he’s goading any of this out of Roger. He likes praise. In fact, he loves it. But he does not like deep, meaningful confessions about feelings. He never knows how to handle it and always ends up feeling immensely awkward afterwards. He’s only still waiting for the answer because it’s strange for Roger to voluntarily share his feelings. Despite being captivated, he’s anxious as to where this conversation will end up. Neither of them are great at this.

“Can’t name it. ‘M not good with words.” Roger gestures to the leaning pile of books on the shelf. “I mean, you’re smart.”

“Not really. You’re the one doing Chemistry.”

“Yeah, but I’m failing,” Roger says, shrugging as if that couldn’t matter any less than losing a football match. “And you know what you want. I’m sort of … floating through everything. Just waiting for it to be over.”

“For what to be over?” Jack says, taking the bottle from Roger, taking a swig and screwing his eyes shut as the liquid burns his throat. The taste vanishes quickly and he’s left with the warm, fuzzy feeling.

Roger turns his head so that he is looking at Jack. “Full of questions, aren’t you?”

Jack smiles. Roger smiles back, looking friendlier than Jack’s ever seen him, and it’s strange. Like staring into the eyes of a tamed panther or something. It evokes a sort of sympathy deep inside him, and he’s sick of all these new, spontaneous feelings which seem to be constantly popping up.

His eyes aren’t black, either. Not entirely. There are random flecks of colour circling his pupil, golden yellow which shimmers against the light of the television, a splatter of hazel intertwining itself with the darkness. Jack’s never noticed that before. He’s never been close enough, probably. Now, they are shoulder to shoulder, close enough that every movement Roger makes, Jack feels.

If it weren’t for the sound of Roger’s phone, Jack’s not sure how long they would have stayed looking at each other like that. Roger checks it unwillingly and types a quick reply to whoever it was, hitting send carelessly.

“Party this weekend,” he tells Jack. “What do you say? Celebrate your eighteenth with more than …” he gestures to the crisps and sweets and beer on the floor. “More than this.”

“Who was it?”

“Maurice.”

Jack pauses in his movement for more food. The fact that they have each other’s numbers suggests that they are friends. Actual, outside of college friends. The idea is sparking hints of envy in Jack’s chest, as if all the crisps have digested wrong.

“Didn’t know you guys were friends,” Jack says, mustering as much of a careless tone as possible.

“Yeah. It’s hard not to be friends with him.” Roger drinks again. “He just … doesn’t stop.”

Jack snorts. “Yeah.”

“Kind of fun, though. I don’t have to do much. He does all the talking.” Roger chuckles at his own comment. “He’s easy.”

“I don’t like easy.”

“Golden boy’s easy,” retorts Roger.

Jack draws his brows together, confused. He hates this unfortunate slowness which comes with his alcohol-induced state. It prohibits him from snapping something clever. Instead, he just furrows his eyebrows and lets his brain work furiously in order to create a response.

“He’s not,” is the best he can manage.

“Come on, Merridew. There’s no variation with him.” Roger takes the drink back from Jack, which he hadn’t realised he was holding. “He’s more than easy.”

Usually, Jack would fight against Roger badmouthing Ralph. However, it’s not annoying him as much as it should. Getting drunk must be numbing that usual part of him with is hopelessly loyal to the blonde boy. It’s certainly a lot easier, being able to just shake his head with the beginnings of a smirk on his lips.

“Happy eighteenth,” Roger whispers, for the third time today, shifting one of his hands so that it’s barely brushing by Jack’s fingers.

 


	5. Chapter 5

It’s a girl that ruins everything. Jack’s always hated the girls at his college. There are some alright ones, with decent tits and a certain aesthetically pleasing quality, but those aren’t common. 

Anyway, he likes Ralph, who is a male. That might be a reason why girls are becoming increasingly less appealing.

He’s been eighteen for two weeks now. Well, two weeks and a day, considering it’s a Friday. Maurice’s exhausting insistence finally managed to wear him down, and he agreed, half-heartedly, to go out with them tonight. Another party. The only reason Jack even accepted the invitation was because he found out Roger will be there, and that’s reassuring enough. 

Jack even dared to say that his life is going  _ fine _ .

Of course, seeing as he’s managed to maintain a steady mentality for over a few weeks, the universe decides to throw him a curveball.

He’s in History, thinking over the possible outcomes of the night ahead of him, when somebody says his name.  He looks up from his work, displeased at the distraction. Leaning across the table is Jane Parks. Jay, she calls herself now. She’s been constant background noise since Jack was eleven.

“Yeah,” he replies. His dislike for her has died down a little, but he still doesn’t want to engage in any conversation.

“Who’s your friend?”

Jack pointedly looks at the empty seat beside him and then back at her, filling his gaze with unbridled sarcasm.

“Not now,” she sighs impatiently. “Your friend. Black hair, nice ass.” It’s ringing a few bells. Shamelessly, she adds, “Fit as fuck.”

And right there, right then, it shatters. Jane Parks has broken this month-long illusion with a few words.

Jack thinks about Roger. Just _ thinks _ about him, with his black, messy hair and dark eyes which have flickers of intensity. He thinks about Roger’s bruised knuckles and cut up hands. He thinks about that smile. He thinks about everything which entranced him before and then the amount of whatever he was feeling doubles. 

Fuck, it  _ triples _ .

“Roger, you mean,” Jack says. _ Fit as fuck  _ echoes around his head. All he can do is agree. “Roger Miller.”

“Nice name,” she says, grinning in thanks. “I’ll be sure to see him around.”

Satisfied, Jane Parks resumes her life, as if she hadn’t just smashed the glass box which Jack was safely residing in. Why did she have to talk at all? He knows that Roger isn’t an unappealing sight, but he wasn’t going to exactly admit it, because that’s not what mates do. 

But now that some loudmouthed girl has said it, Jack’s efforts to remain uninterested have fallen away. 

Of course, he always knew Roger was attractive. He’s not pretty, not like Ralph. There’s nothing gentle about him. Unlike the blonde boy, Roger isn’t careful. He’s calculated and cold, but not careful, because he doesn’t hold things like they’re about to break. 

But Jack can’t help but like the way his eyes are dark and lively at the same time; he likes the way he snags that lip piercing with his teeth. He especially likes the way he smiles, the curve of his mouth, the crinkles which underline his eyes.

The two boys which have caught his attention couldn’t be any more different. As if he needs any more confusion in his life.

* * *

A few drinks into the night, Jack is feeling fuzzy. He’s very aware of Roger – he has been all night. Since earlier, Jack’s eyes have ventured their way past the boundaries of what is considered polite, and he’s has to rip his eyes off of him before the staring becomes noticeable. Once or twice, he thinks Roger sees, but if he does, it’s not mentioned.

For an outing, this night has been surprisingly enjoyable. Yeah, it’s a shit party, but Jack’s expectations weren’t high. This cheap lager and thudding bass is what house parties generally are, just minus actual fun. Usually, it’s Maurice and the others having a laugh. Jack’s just a bitter tagalong, staring at Ralph’s dancing figure, creating impressive scenarios in his head where Jack approaches him, confesses his love and they finally kiss. Everyone would cheer, like in one of those movies, and Jack would leave with Ralph on his arm and everybody would clap their retreating backs.

Tonight, he’s not even seen Ralph. That’s strange. That bouncing blonde head is the first thing he scouts for in the crowd. However, he doesn’t pay much mind to it, as Roger is pushing another shot towards him and grinning wickedly.

_ Time flies when you’re having fun _ has never applied more. It’s bizarre, this idea of not wanting to go home, and it is nearly midnight before he expected. Bill vanished at some point. Probably went home. Robert didn’t attend, because he’s studying for something, according to Percival, who also left earlier. That leaves Jack, Maurice and Roger.

Jack’s not sure who is throwing this party. The house is big and unfamiliar. Whoever it is, they are several plates short. Roger steps over the broken china and sits himself on the table, crossing his legs and pulling out a cigarette. It’s quieter in here.

Maurice is chatting to himself, probably under the impression that Jack is listening. He looks over at Roger in hope for them to exchange a knowing, judgmental eyeroll at Maurice’s constant storytelling, but Jack’s unpleasantly shocked to see that Roger is smiling. At some point, he even goes as far to chuckle, which isn’t right. Whatever Maurice said probably wasn’t even fucking funny. Sometimes, he’s accidentally insightful, but never funny.

Jack frowns, something heavy and hot clawing at his stomach, the muscles going taut. He knows what it is. He’s no stranger to the dirty discomfort which envy brings, having encountered it many times whilst watching Ralph.

Roger’s eyes are focused and don’t leave Maurice. Jack watches him pull on the cigarette, exhaling almost lazily, grinning at Maurice’s story. He’s spouting off some bollocks about something which probably didn’t even happen, yet Roger seems interested enough, and that’s fucking aggravating. Whenever with Jack, Roger never really looks at him, never speaks much above his preferred low volume. Why does he seem to care so much about whatever Maurice thinks?

This influx of emotions is sudden and quite horrible, and to make it worse, he knows that he’s not having them towards the right person. This intense sort of feeling should be towards the blonde boy who he’s devoted an entire year of his life loving. Not for somebody like Roger, who is intimidating and dark and unimportant. Jack doesn’t know fucking anything about him.

In an attempt to rid himself of this disgusting feeling, he reaches over and pinches the fag out of Roger’s fingers. He achieves the desired reaction; Roger looks to Jack’s fingers, and then his lips, and then his eyes. Maurice’s voice becomes nothing but a distant noise amongst the cacophony of a house party. Jack tries to hide the satisfaction swelling in his chest. And obviously, he doesn’t do a good job, because Roger is scowling at him, as if saying _ really? _

“If you want one, all you have to do is ask,” is Roger’s response. There’s grudging amusement in his voice, however, and Jack feels a thrilled spark deep in his chest.

“Don’t smoke,” he shrugs, pushing the cigarette back into the other boy’s hand, not exactly sure why he’s making such a deal out of Roger talking to Maurice. They’re just talking. Laughing. Like friends do.

Roger, seemingly thrown beyond words, just takes it back and puts it to his lips again. Around the filter, he murmurs, “Gotta piss. You coming?”

“Yeah,” Jack shrugs. They both turn to look at Maurice, but he’s not where they thought. Instead, he’s a few metres to the right, swept up in a cluster of first years and smiling down at a chubby girl in a short dress.

“He moves fast,” Roger mumbles.

Half-heartedly, Jack laughs, a bit entranced in the way Roger gracefully swings himself off the table.

They fall into the upstairs bathroom, and are greeted by a sight which all but horrifies Jack. There are two semi-clothed, snogging people against the wall. It wouldn’t sting if the one pushed against the wall wasn’t a familiar face.

Ralph and his boyfriend jump apart. His fuzzy mind can’t really comprehend the sight in front of him until Ralph mumbles, “You said the door was locked, Eric.”

Fuck. Jack feels his face flush a colour similar to his hair and he ducks his head, trying not to stare at Ralph’s bare midriff. He’s already located his shirt and is pulling it hastily over his head.

“Thought it was,” replies Eric, who sheepishly smiles. He’s not looking for his clothes, probably hoping that Jack and Roger will just turn around and let them resume. Tosser. “Alright, Merridew?”

“Yeah,” Jack manages. Although, he’s not. He feels ill all over again, his heartbeat picking up, jealousy rearing its ugly head.

Roger doesn’t look like he’s about to apologise any time soon. His eyebrows are pulled together in annoyance, cigarette still burning. He takes a quick look at Jack, who is a little distracted, torn between admiring Ralph’s tousled hair or glaring at Eric.

“Hi, Jack,” says Ralph, once he’s no longer shirtless. His smile melts away as his attention turns to Roger, who is blatantly shooting daggers at the two in front of him. Ralph’s eyes turn distasteful.

“Sorry,” Jack says weakly, grabbing Roger’s arm. His friend doesn’t budge. He tugs against, harder, but there’s no movement. “Come on, Rog. This house is big. There’ll be another bathroom.”

“They were just leaving,” Roger retorts, his facial expression impassive, but Jack can see the flames dancing in his eyes.

“Yeah,” agrees Ralph, and Eric sourly nods. “Can’t be gone for too long.”

As they squeeze past Roger, who has no intention of moving, Ralph smiles up at Jack. He’s close. Close enough to elicit shivers as Ralph’s shoulder accidentally brushes his arm.

“Nice seeing you, Jack.”

Jack echoes him, sounding pathetic as he mumbles nice seeing you into the empty air.

Once Roger has pissed, he slumps down against the wall and takes his cigarette from in-between his teeth. Jack sits opposite him, bringing his knees to his chest, just accepting that Maurice will be left downstairs for now. He’s occupied, anyway.

“What’s your deal?” Roger asks, making a vague motion to the door. “With him.”

Jack just shrugs. He could delve into a long explanation, tell Roger all of his reasonings for being captured by all of Ralph’s mannerisms and being stunned by his looks, but he doesn’t. There’s no need. He’ll just end up embarrassing himself.

“Did you fuck or something?” Roger prompts.

Jack blinks, taken aback by the blunt statement. He’s not used to these uncomfortable truths. Maurice tiptoes around him, frightened of the reaction he will receive.

“No.”

“Then what’s your thing?”

“There is no thing,” he says, mustering as much venom into his words as he can. It comes out tired and empty.

Roger raises his eyebrows and chuckles without humour. It’s more of a sharp intake of breath than a laugh. “Right.”

“What’s your problem with him?” Jack asks, less defensive and more genuinely confused. There shouldn’t be a problem between the two boys. They’re in the same class for Sociology, but that’s it, and Jack’s fairly certain that they’ve never really shared a conversation. People like Roger and Ralph are worlds apart. Separate entities. If there was a spectrum, they’d be opposite ends.

“Who? Golden boy?” he asks, leaning his forearm on his knee. He tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling and frowning. “He’s not real.”

“I think he’s pretty real. Unless what we just saw was a figment of my imagination,” snaps Jack.

“Not what I meant,” Roger says, rolling his eyes. “He’s too perfect. It’s fake. He’s probably fucked up, deep down, so he puts on this … front. Perfect blonde kid with straight A’s and his whole future figured out. It’s not real.”

As the other boy talks, Jack lets his eyes wander further down his jaw, away from his lips, onto his shoulders. Then down his arms, all along until he reaches his fingers, letting his eyes drift over the faint marks where there were bruises several weeks previously.

“Your hands are better,” Jack states, cutting Roger off. The dark boy shoots a disinterested glance at his knuckles. “What did you do?”

“Can’t even remember,” shrugs Roger. “Probably hit something.”

Jack, privately, guesses that he’s lying. The muscle in his jaw is clenching as it always does when he gets defensive. Jack’s spent over a month picking up on strange attributes and habits. Like the way he becomes stiff and disguised whenever personal topics come up. Or, whilst smoking, his eyes follow the smoke until it vanishes, watching with wonder. There’s the way his smile pokes dimples in his cheeks, but that’s rare. He never usually smiles wide enough to show those dimples. Usually, he makes his expression unfriendly, makes that smile mocking rather than genuine.

The silence that falls isn’t uncomfortable. Jack just continues his in-depth examination of Roger, things he’s never noticed before suddenly becoming apparent. Since when did Roger have a birth mark on his right arm? When did he get that scar on his ankle? How long has he had that dark, purple bruise on his arm?

It’s only when Roger says his name that he realises he’s been looking for too long to be socially acceptable. He looks back up to the face which is staring him down, feeling something stir in his stomach, that awful sense of attraction which he can’t shake. It’s all thanks to fucking Jane Parks. 

Jack moves forwards and, surprisingly gently, pushes their lips together. It’s an awkward position; Jack regrets not moving closer beforehand. But it was kind of a split-second decision when he was surging forwards, forgetting that they still haven’t shut the bathroom door and anybody walking upstairs could see.

The relief is automatic. It’s like his muscles were tangled and knotted up and the soft pressure of someone else underneath him is what relaxes him. He wastes no time with hesitant movements. Jack presses harder, trying to push his lips open, trying to slide his own mouth against Roger’s and kiss him like he aches to. 

Jack’s either drunk to the point of stupidity, or the jealousy of seeing Ralph is making him do shit he knows he’ll regret. Kissing Roger is a bad idea. He’s Jack’s friend, probably the only one who can stand him. Jack’s got a habit for fucking things up, however, and Roger is the only thing in his life which is slightly fine at the moment.

The kiss tastes like nicotine and lager until it slows to a stop. His friend places his hand on Jack’s shoulder, breaking them apart. The redhead stops with great reluctance, making sure to pull at Roger’s bottom lip with his teeth as he retreats.

“Is this why you were acting weird?” he asks, his eyes sharpening with realisation.

“Wasn’t,” Jack tells him, pressing a kiss against the corner of his mouth, suddenly overcome with burning want pooling below his waistline. Ralph’s still nagging in the back of his mind but he manages, just about, to push the image of a tutting blonde boy away.

“With Maurice,” Roger explains, searching for some sign of recognition. Purposely, Jack ignores him, blinking away the blurriness and moving forwards once again. It’s sloppy and unpractised and Roger feels unenthusiastic underneath him. All this one-sided kissing is getting tiring. Roger plants another hand on his shoulder and shoves him backwards, harder than before. Jack nearly falls. They’re positioned precariously. Roger still hasn’t moved his knees, which are brought up to his chest.

“What?” Jack asks, feigning indifference, even though something similar to hurt is tugging at his heartstrings. He doesn’t think he can handle Roger’s upcoming rejection without doing something even more stupid.

“You’re drunk.” Jack goes to pull away, disheartened, but Roger keeps a tight grip on his wrist. “And upset.”

“Christ,” groans Jack, pulling away with more gusto. This attempt works. He is free from Roger’s grip, although now he’s not sure what to do with his hands. “Don’t try and read into it.”

“It’s not reading into it,” Roger snaps. “It’s obvious. You’re pissed. Then you saw Golden Boy about to be fucked by somebody else. You need to take it out on –“

“It’s just a kiss,” Jack says.

“Yeah. Right. And I’ve been imagining you staring at me, have I?”

Rolling his eyes, shielding any hurt with arrogance, Jack stands up and heads towards the door. Just to get away from Roger. Away from the mistake he just made and which will probably haunt him forever.

“Merridew.”

He dramatically throws the bathroom door open. The music from downstairs becomes suddenly louder.

“Jack,” says Roger. The use of his first name causes Jack to pause. The common terms used to address him were either insults or his surname. The only person who calls him Jack are his mother and Ralph.

Finally, he turns. Roger is on his feet, looking slightly panicked. It’s bizarre to see him lose his cool, even if does regain it in several seconds, that determined glower creeping back into place.

“Don’t worry. I’ll know never to try that again,” Jack snarls.

“That’s not what I meant.” Roger shoots back.

“Tell me, then. What do you mean?” Jack’s voice is raised, a little louder than it should be. “What do you actually ever  _ mean, _ Roger? I never know what the fuck you’re thinking.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t bother to look beyond the surface.” His voice is angered, but restrained, as if he’s keeping it tightly locked away. His fingers are quivering and Jack knows that the urge to lash out is threatening to overpower him. “Not everybody is as fucking self assured as you.”

“Oh, piss off,” Jack says, forcing himself to glare, even though he really wants to stride forwards and take Roger’s face in his hands and kiss him again, just to relieve this tension which is seizing up his whole body.

Or hit him. That seems pretty appealing too. 

“You’re so _frustrating_.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Jack isn’t sure how to stop his voice from sounding so harsh and filled with venom. “Says you. I never know what you’re thinking. Whether you like me or not.”

“If I didn’t like you, you would know.”

“I wouldn’t, though. I know _nothing_ about you, Roger, and you’re the only fucking person I like.”

“You know a lot about me. More than anyone else,” Roger replies, his eyebrows shooting up in some type of amusement. Or maybe that’s shock. Whatever. Jack can’t tell. “You just don’t care.”

“If you hate me so much, don’t be my friend.”

Roger’s eyes grow impossibly darker. When he speaks, his words are dripping with warning. “I don’t hate you.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I don’t. Wish I could,” he adds bitterly, his glare momentarily growing in intensity. It retreats back to the sad, annoyed glance a few seconds afterwards, watered down by his words. “I just can’t.”

Jack doesn’t really have a response to that. Instead, he just frowns.

“You’re my friend,” Roger admits, looking as if it pains him. “And we’re drunk. You’re sad.”

“I’m not sad,” he denies fervently. He hates that word. But, stupidly, he ends up sounding sad.

“Whatever, Jack. Let’s just get out of here.”

“Where?” Jack says stubbornly, but warming to the suggestion of leaving. He hopes that Roger will let him stay over, because his Mum won’t like being woken up by her son stumbling in gone midnight, smelling of smoke and alcohol and all things unholy. Or has he ruined that too?

After several painstaking moments, Roger sighs, not even managing to smile. He keeps his mouth clamped into a thin line, but still pats Jack on the shoulder and says, “Home, yeah?” 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Jack doesn’t see Roger for four days. They text occasionally, but Roger’s replies have never been quick, and most times they would just pick up the conversation in person. However, Jack doesn’t see him. The last time he saw Roger’s face, it was the morning after that party, when they were both nursing awful hangovers. He and Roger had slept in the same bed for space reasons, and at some point, Jack vaguely recalls feeling the warmth of a slender midriff under his arm. But he left soon after he woke up. Since then, Roger seems to be constantly absent or is either ignoring him.

That’s perfectly fine, because Jack needs to focus on revising. If he doesn’t, there’s no way he’s getting the grades he needs. 

Also, whilst he’s been swept up in this new experience of friendship, Ralph’s affections towards him have increased. His smiles are a little wider, his eyes a little shinier. Contact lasts a second more than usual. Even though it’s puzzling, Jack isn’t complaining, because Ralph inflates him like he’s swallowed helium and is floating a few inches above the ground. 

“I’m really sorry, by the way,” Ralph gushes after English, when they’re walking down the stairs side by side, the reassuring smell of his aftershave reaching Jack’s nostrils. “About the party. When you and your friend …” he trails off, sounding embarrassed. “I was drunk. I don’t usually don’t do that.”

“Which part? Get drunk or snog in a stranger’s bathroom?” Jack says, poking fun at the situation, even though even thinking about seeing Eric and Ralph is making him feel agitated.

“Both,” Ralph replies. “I don’t want you to think badly about me.”

“What?” Jack asks as he blinks away shock. Firstly, the fact that Ralph cares enough is uplifting, but he must be utterly clueless. In Jack’s head, Ralph’s on some golden fucking pedestal. He could do anything and Jack wouldn’t have the capability to think badly of him.

“I dunno. You must think I’m a skank or whatever. Always at a party, drunk, getting off with somebody.” Ralph pauses, glancing sideways to look at Jack with that soft expression. “I care about what you think, you know?”

Jack is taken aback, confused as to why Ralph gives two fucks about his opinion, but he’s got no time to think too hard on the subject as Ralph is talking about something else, nattering in his own adorable way. Jack finds himself enthralled to be at the receiving end of this. He just smiles and laughs when appropriate.

Much too soon, they have to part ways. Upon their goodbyes, Ralph nudges him affectionately and says, “Bye, Jack.”

It shouldn’t have his spirits soaring quite so. It’s not unusual for Ralph to be friendly, because that’s what he does. He’s nice and kind and bubbly. That’s part of his charm. But Jack feels inflated as he saunters down the Sociology corridor, biting back a grin so the first years won’t stare at a smiling madman wandering around.

But Roger’s absence is wearing away at him, the guilt nagging in the back of his mind. They’ve not discussed the kiss, and honestly, Jack’s glad for that. The only product of that will be an extremely difficult conversation, in which Jack will have to do most of the talking, because Roger is a boy of few words and seems to prefer vehement eye contact. Anyway, drunk mistakes are always best to be left as mistakes. Not even acknowledged.

Ignoring problems is never the solution, apparently, but it’s always worked for Jack. He ignores his feelings for Ralph. He ignores the pressure of exams until a month or so before. He ignores most of his desires, because if they were fulfilled, many people would have big, purple bruises circling their eyes from Jack’s fist. If he did what he actually wanted, he wouldn’t be friends with Maurice, and he’d probably have been suspended. When he was twelve, Jack did what he wanted to, and maybe that’s why everybody still remembers him as that mean redhead kid who got his own way.

People think he’s matured into a nice person, but they’re wrong, because the thoughts are still there. He just cages those urges, traps them deep inside.

Except, at the party, he didn’t. He wanted to kiss Roger, so he did. And look where it fucking got him. His friend is on radio silence and Jack’s left with immense regret or guilt or whatever the fuck that is gnawing at his stomach.

On the way home, Jack detours from his usual route, strolling down the street which claims Roger’s house. As he’s going past number 13, Jack lets his eyes drift to the open curtains and into the familiar living room, hoping to spot a shock of jet-black hair lounging around on the sofa. He doesn’t. Not even any of his family.

Roger isn’t one to erupt into heartfelt speech. So, Jack has spent a considerable portion of their evenings together, when Roger is sitting or lying obliviously beside him, trying to draw conclusions. Yeah, delving into your mate’s family life isn’t exactly right, but whatever. Jack’s never really followed the rules when it comes to friends. It’s just bewildering how closed off he is.

There’ll have to be a point in the future when he collapses under the enormous pressure of trying to keep himself together. There’s a selfish part of Jack that can’t wait to see it happen. Watching somebody of such confidence and intimidation unravel would be satisfying. Of course, it’s Roger, his friend, so Jack would have to be the one picking up the pieces.

That’s if they even are friends. Hopefully, Roger will just appear from thin air and act as if nothing is wrong.

Jack realises he’s been stopped moving. Staring into Roger’s empty house is distracting him. Luckily, nobody is behind him, and nobody saw him abruptly come to a halt in the middle of the street. He doesn’t even know how long for. Getting caught up in his thoughts is a common pastime when it comes to journeying home, but it never affects his brisk pace. Not usually.

But that’s when he would think of Ralph. Now, his mind is crammed full of Roger, brimming to the point of overflowing, any images of smiling blonde overshadowed by a grimacing, dark-eyed, sharp creature.

He thinks of Ralph’s face. The picture he summons is out of focus, the defined edges of his jaw, chin and nose just blending into the bright background, as if somebody has smudged his perfection onto the canvas behind him.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“I think Mum’s having an affair,” says Roger, voice matter-of-fact, his casual tone atypical for such an accusation.

It’s a Wednesday morning, when they both share a free period. Jack’s house is empty. He pretends to study for a while, then idly wastes the morning hours on his phone and chatting absentmindedly to his friend. He had slipped back into the routine without complaint, as if Roger’s week-long silence is no problem whatsoever. It had been a few days later when Roger returned to college, claiming he was ill, and everything just resumed the natural pattern.

Jack looks away from his phone. From his current position, he can’t see the other half of Roger’s face, but from the half he can see, he seems unbothered. Not unlike usual. For a second, Jack thinks he heard that wrong. Surely, the other boy should show some sign of hurt by this revelation, something other than the expression which occupies his features most times they are together.

“What?”

Roger repeats himself in the exact same way. Then, he adds, “Have you seen my lighter?” as if he hadn’t said anything damaging at all.

“How do you know?” Jack ventures carefully.

Roger seems more interested in finding the lighter. Eventually, he produces it from underneath the blanket. It’s not until his cigarette is burning does he consider Jack’s question.

“I don’t. Just a guess,” he replies.

“Why’d you guess, then?” Jack says impatiently.

“She’s been really … defensive. As if she has something to hide.” Roger furrows his brows and thinks for a long, hard moment. “And she’s quieter.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean she’s cheating.”

“Maybe not,” he shrugs, brushing the subject off, as if it’s nothing more than a quick chat about the weather.

Heaving a sigh, Jack puts his phone on top of his revision folder and stands up. The floor isn’t comfortable, anyway. He clambers onto the bed, sitting opposite his friend, who looks dubious at Jack’s movement.

“Tell me about it,” he says, forcing his voice to be gentle and reassuring like Ralph’s always is. It isn’t quite there. It still sounds a bit too enthusiastic, borderline fake. “About all of it.”

Roger’s shock is obvious, badly masked with a forced laugh. “What?”

“Talk to me. If you need.” It comes out even more uncertain than Roger. He’s new to this whole nice act. He’s been focused on being cold and brash and clever since he was a kid. Now, his ways have been abandoned, replaced with good intentions. These intentions feel alien in his body, and he’s got half a mind to tack on a quick never mind and resume his revision.

But Roger is either fidgeting or faltering, and Jack sincerely hopes it’s the latter.

“I’d scare you off,” is Roger’s eventual reply, barely above a mumble.

“I’ve been mates with you for months. I’m not just going to pack up and leave,” says Jack.

“You’d be surprised,” Roger retorts, his tone becoming more heated.

“I’ll go first, then,” Jack says. He shifts to get more comfortable, and then begins his narrative, putting on a confident front. “I was adopted when I was a baby. Never knew my real Mum. Never even seen a picture of her.”

The other boy furrows his eyebrows, trying to hide his surprise. It doesn’t work.

“I’m not sure why. Maybe she was on drugs. Maybe she was young. Maybe she just … didn’t want me.” The confidence is slowly slipping away, but it feels good to voice these things. He’s only ever mulled them over extensively to himself. He makes sure to keep his voice impassive as he continues. “And I’ve spent years wondering why she didn’t.”

He trails off for a second, letting his mind run wild, the picture of a redhead woman surfacing in his thoughts. Everything on him is mirrored onto the imaginary figure, everything from his freckles to his angular face to his icy blue eyes.

“We were, uh,” Jack carries on, pushing his thoughts away, “watching this video in Year 8. And they said something about the bond between mother and child is the strongest bond known. Or something. It said that the second a child is born, the mother would do anything for the baby, including give up her own life.” Jack swallows. “I just … remember wondering why my Mum didn’t love me like everybody else’s did.”

As usual, Roger doesn’t say much, but there’s a new attentiveness in his expression that Jack hasn’t seen before.

“Mum and Dad have all the information and stuff, but … I don’t want it.”

Roger’s gaze has softened considerably, and so has his voice when he asks, “Why not?”

“I don’t want to know her,” shrugs Jack. “She gave me up for a reason. I’m not going to spend my life hunting her down just to be rejected. Again.”

“Jack,” Roger says quietly, noticing a slight waver in words. He reaches forwards with his free arm. Mid-way, he decides against whatever he was about to do. Eventually, he drops his hand onto Jack’s, his fingers squeezing reassuringly. “You never told me.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, shrugging, reaching for Roger’s cigarette in a hope to distract from his outburst. He’s sort of regretting it. “Everybody has their shit.”

Nicotine burns at his throat as he inhales, but he doesn’t cough, because Roger’s eyes are watching him carefully. Smoking isn’t his thing. Never has been. Fags leave a rich, unpleasant taste on his tongue which doesn’t fade for hours. Yet, with Roger, he spends half of his time with a cigarette between his lips and slowly becoming familiar to the flavour of nicotine.

“Is that why you don’t like asking?” asks Roger cautiously.

“What?”

“You don’t like asking things. You just … tell.” Roger has fixed him with a calculating stare. “Because you don’t want to be rejected.”

Jack frowns, folding his arms defensively, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable. The first thing he wants to do is laugh it off, pass off the whole thing as a joke. But this whole family conversation is about being honest, isn’t it?

After he pushes aside his first reaction, the second is to deny it. Just shake his head and say something else, effectively bringing them to another topic. But what if, his brain interjects, he’s right?

That doesn’t sit well with him. Heavy realisation settles in the pit of his stomach, like he’s overeaten and is suffering the consequences.

“Yeah,” Jack says finally. “I guess.”

Their hands are still against each other. Carefully, deliberately, Jack pushes their long fingers together. It happens slowly, giving either of them plenty of chance to pull away. Roger just lets it happen, staring at their joint hands with inexplicable emotions written into his eyes.

That look still hasn’t dissolved when he looks up and meets Jack’s gaze. He waits for Roger to talk – it’s his turn now – but that never comes. Instead, Roger just pulls on his cigarette and settles into that same infuriating silence. Part of him wants to lean forwards and push his lips against Roger’s, again, but the last time that happened, days were spent regretting it.

“We should get going. I’ve got Chemistry,” are the only words Roger says. He swings his legs off Jack’s bed and pulls his shoes on, which were kicked off earlier, moving towards downstairs.

Reluctantly, filled with aching disappointment, Jack follows.

*

It’s Sunday when Jack finds himself alone with Roger. Their routine is slowly becoming fragmented, ripped apart by revision sessions and appointments. Now, they just arrange everything an hour or so before.

He’s been anticipating a continuation of their conversation for days. Somebody has always been hanging around, meaning that Roger doesn’t say anything other than jokes and insults, being mindful to guard himself. Jack grows increasingly frustrated as the days crawl by. Whenever Roger saunters home with him, Jack gently treads over the subject, resisting the urge to snap something hurtful. He hates being left in the dark.

So, when Roger finally murmurs, “Is it my turn now?”, relief and satisfaction swamp him. Jack knows he should say ‘only if you want to’, or something sensitive. That’s the right thing to do. But the curiosity has been overmastering, and Jack ends up nodding, awaiting Roger’s words with a strange sort of anxiety.

“Like I said, I think Mum’s having an affair,” he starts. His voice is low and quiet. Jack hangs to every word. There’s a healthy amount of distance between them and he wants to shift closer, but Roger might stop talking, and if Jack doesn’t hear this story then he’s going to explode. “Which isn’t smart. At all. And if she is, then …I hope she doesn’t get caught, is all.”

“Why can’t she just leave?”

Roger grimaces, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray, which Jack bought for times like these. “She wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not without something happening.”

“Something like what happening?”

Stress rumples further into his features, creasing his forehead and pressing his lips into a thin line. “With my dad.”

“What do you mean?”

It’s clear that he’s fighting off the urge to say ‘never mind’. Jack hopes he won’t. Pieces of the puzzle are finally slotting together, and suddenly, Roger isn’t as dark and mysterious as originally guessed. He’s misunderstood and broken and hurting.

He looks conflicted. For a daunting second, Jack thinks his friend is about to get up and leave. Much to his relief, he doesn’t, instead sitting forward and pulling his shirt from his head in one fluid motion. He feels his cheeks tinge pink, eyes drawn to the expanse of skin of the dark-haired boy’s stomach. Words form at his lips, something similar to  _ what are you doing? _ That is, until Roger turns around and he catches sight of his back.

It’s littered with blemishes. Just above his shoulder blade is a thick, jagged scar. Jack eyes scan down further, drawn to the less obvious abrasions, some of which have already faded to small, unnoticeable scars. Others are newer. One has scabbed, clearly quite recent, and stretches from his back to his side, bruises clouding the skin near it.

Jack remembers when he had compared Roger to one of those evil angels. Then, he had imagined his torso to be covered purple splotches, shadowed by his black wings, but the bruises were there from fights and falling and everything average. The angel version of Roger certainly wasn’t as damaged as this, definitely wouldn’t be looking so uncertain and fragile as he is now.

“Christ,” he whispers, more to himself than Roger, even though he catches the words.

“Told you I’d scare you off,” says Roger regretfully, going to move away.

“Wait.” Jack makes his touch feather light, bringing his fingers to the top of his spine, just where the scar starts. Underneath his delicate touch, Roger tenses, but he doesn’t move away. “What does he … use?”

“Depends,” Roger says, his voice strangled. “Belt. Lighter. Whatever he can get his hands on, really.”

That explains the area of skin which a slightly lighter than the rest. It looks tight, like somebody has stretched it, and the skin looks like it’s about to break. It’s surprisingly strong, however, when Jack’s index finger runs over it.

His fingers reach the bruises. Gently, he pushes one, feeling the swollen tissue underneath his hand. Whether in pain or surprise, Roger flinches. Jack keeps contact. He runs nothing more than his fingertips back up the length of his spine, eliciting a small inhale from the other boy, who murmurs something about it tickling.

“What about the front?”

Obediently, Roger turns. The front isn’t as bad as the back, but there are some. Most noticeably, there’s a scar just below his ribs, which curves slightly. It forms a wonky letter c. There are more bruises on the front, a few of them yellowing and faded.

“Why?” manages Jack, his voice even more choked than Roger’s.

“Different reasons,” he says, forcing himself to elaborate, looking pained. The angel on Jack’s shoulder hisses at him to stop asking questions. It’s clear that this is a sensitive topic, but Jack is captivated and intrigued and wants to hear the rest of the story. “Can’t remember why it started. Just sort of … got worse as I grew up. S’not that bad once it heals,” Roger adds, shrugging.

Sympathy tugs at his heartstrings. All he can do is look at the dark-haired boy, letting his sorrow bleed into his touches, tracing patterns around the scar under his ribs.

“Better me than Mum. That’s how it used to be.”

The emotions are untidily twisted around each other. They must merge into one huge surge of confidence, because he’s not really aware of his actions until he’s leaning forwards, pressing his lips against Roger’s shoulder. Tension wracks his body automatically. Jack ignores it, slowly sliding his lips over the expanse of thin skin, reaching the junction between his shoulder and his neck.

Eventually, he pulls back, putting space between them. The rigidity of Roger’s posture eases, clearly relieved that it’s all over, even though there’s lingering disappointment in his stare.

“What would happen if you told somebody?” Jack asks.

“I’m not sure. But I’m not going to find out. Just in case.”

“You could go, you know,” Jack suggests quietly. “Run away in the middle of the night. You could stay at my house for as long as you needed.”

“What, and leave Mum behind?”

“No. Both of you. You can have my room, I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

For a second, they let themselves mull over the fantasy, wondering what it would be like. Roger and his mum would be safe. Those scars on his back would remain scars and provide a distant memory of dark times. That wouldn’t be the current situation. He would live in fear anymore.

Hope flickers in Roger’s eyes, but it’s gone as soon as it appears. Reality is always there and there’s no escaping from it.

“Say he found us,” Roger says darkly, “I don’t know what would happen.”

“I’ll protect you,” Jack says hotly.

Roger pushes his fingers through his dark hair and sighs, shaking his head curtly. “Don’t you think I’ve tried to fight back? Doesn’t work. He’s strong. Trained for the army or whatever.” He shrugs his shoulders again, seemingly lost for what else to do. Jack runs his fingers over Roger’s upper arm in a reassuring manner, hoping that he won’t get pushed off. The skin underneath his fingers is cold and smooth and Jack never wants to stop drawing meaningless patterns into it. “I’m just a skinny kid. So are you.”

Jack feels annoyance stir, the primal urge to prove him wrong climbing his throat. He could try. He’s gotten into fights before. When he was fifteen, he hit some kid in his Spanish class and the kid had a black eye for a good week. But Roger’s dad isn’t some thin teenager and a distant part of him knows that there’s no chance of ever standing up to him.

“What about the police?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Roger says forcefully, breaking the comfortable atmosphere. “Okay? You can’t …”

“What, tell?” Jack offers sharply, matching the tone. He softens again when Roger’s eyes leap in panic, apology creeping into his voice. “I won’t. Don’t worry.”

Slowly, Jack has moved closer. He’s not sure what he’s about to do and there’s a giddy feeling following him, excited at the endless possibilities. They could kiss again, this time with no liquor muddling his mind. Jack wants to, but he’s not sure why. This is Roger. His best friend. Or maybe just friend. They’ve never specified a label for this.

Leaning down, he pushes a kiss to Roger’s other shoulder, effectively caging him against the headboard of the bed. He runs his mouth up Roger’s neck, keeping the kisses chaste and gentle. Fingers dig into his back. Jack can’t tell whether that’s a sign of enjoyment or not, and he pulls back, trying to figure out his next move.

“We never talked about it, did we?” says Roger quietly.  He runs his hands down Jack’s arms with his fingers digging in, a little too hard for Jack’s taste.

“We don’t need to.”

“Why not?”

“I was drunk. Pissed off. I kissed you and said some mean shit,” shrugs Jack. “Not a big deal.”

They are still close. Close enough for Jack to scan through the layers in Roger’s eyes - predominantly, there’s annoyance. However, if he looks a little deeper, there’s damage splintering through and twisting his irises into something frightening.

“We argued a bit, yeah,” he says, fingers becoming painfully tight. Jack makes sure his expression betrays no pain. “Just we never actually –“

“Leave it, alright?” Jack snaps. It comes out harshly. He sighs and offers a conciliation. "There’s not much to talk about, anyway.”

Roger’s expression morphs from something close to bewilderment into disbelief. Eventually, Roger pushes his palms flat against Jack’s shoulders and pushes him away. Hard. As he tumbles back, Jack knows that any previous gentle words are lost. This boy, brimming with negativity and anger, is the Roger he recognises.

It’s clear that he has no intention of resuming the conversation. He dips down and picks his shirt back up, pulling it over his back, effectively hiding all the cuts and bruises. Jack tries to regain his dignity by elegantly returning to his side of the bed. He wasn’t expecting Roger to shove him quite so.

To an outsider, it must have been funny. He can imagine that half the kids at college would pay to see him be pushed over like that. But it’s still not sitting right. Even when he picks up his book from the floor – it must have been kicked off the bed and sprawled on the floor, losing his page – he still feels pretty embarrassed.

The air seems to get heavier as seconds tick by. The meaningful conversation has been replaced by that awful, thick atmosphere which Jack should be used to by now. Quiet is how Roger prefers to stay.

“Jack,” is the word which breaks the suffocating silence, uttered by Roger, who is looking more downcast than usual as he stares at his thumbs. “What was it to you?”

“What was what?” Jack has an inkling as to what he’s referring to. Sure enough, he guessed right.

“The party.”

Jack goes to answer, serene in his self-assurance, until his bravado falters when he realises that he doesn’t have an answer. There’s not one word circling his mind. It’s empty. Blank. Unresponsive. The ambience is awkward enough as it is, and his struggle for words doesn’t help that.

And even when he settles on his answer – nothing – he doesn’t want to say it. He’s not sure what reaction he will get. He’s never tried hard to dodge around emotions before – why is this situation any different? Why has Jack waited until now to start being careful not to hurt Roger’s feelings?

“It was just a kiss, right?” Jack says, offering a nonchalant shrug.

The noise Roger makes is somewhere between a laugh and sigh. It’s not disappointed, but it’s not relieved either. His voice hovers somewhere in between.

“Yeah. Whatever.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

The news of Ralph and Eric’s breakup shouldn’t be such good news. Jack doesn’t quite manage to uphold the sympathetic façade as Maurice tells him the details. The story is barely over before Jack is shoving his half-eaten sandwich at Roger and giving some bad excuse as to his sudden absence. The dark boy remains looking bored but there’s a new tension rippling through his body. Jack ignores it. He’s got no time for Roger’s strange antics right now. Maybe later he’ll think it over.

It takes at least five minutes of searching to find Ralph. When Jack finally catches sight of him, sat on the bench outside of the construction block, he forgets the order to breathe in, accidentally inhaling twice and then forgetting what to do next. When he eventually remembers, he’s left breathless. Or maybe that’s caused by the sight of the figure on the bench, his eyes narrowed in concentration at whatever he’s reading. Sometimes, Jack doesn’t think the blonde boy is real. He must be a figment of Jack’s imagination. Maybe he can see him and nobody else can – perhaps that’s why people fix him with such disdainful stares in the hallways. He could be talking to the air next to him, under some illusion that it’s Ralph.

By mistake, he nearly refers to him as Golden Boy, probably an influence from Roger. Jack inwardly scolds himself and stops his mouth forming a g, instead curling his lips around the name which he’s said many times before. Not enough, it seems. It brings a spark of energy with it. Ralph.

It’s too quiet for anybody to hear but himself. He says it again, louder this time.

Ralph looks up at the sound. Warmth spreads from his smile to his eyes at the sight of Jack, who badly hides his exhilaration, knowing that Ralph is smiling because of him. Nobody else.

“How are you?” he asks tentatively, seating himself next to Ralph, just close enough for their shoulders to brush.

Ralph shakes his head and rolls his eyes, somewhat playfully, but there’s a lingering sadness about him. “Heard about what happened, did you?”

“Yeah, but not much about it,” shrugs Jack, which is a complete lie. Maurice had told him everything about how Ralph had ended things due to not being happy in the relationship. He lost feelings, apparently. “But I’m not here to ask for that,” he adds hastily. “I’m just here to offer … support.”

Ralph raises his eyebrows. “Support?”

Jack wonders why he sounds so surprised. It stings a bit. When has Jack not been there for him? Since the second a friendship began, since Jack’s feelings began bubbling under the surface, he’s always been there. It begins to grate against him and the biting comment is already prepared when he sees Ralph’s smile and realises that it’s a joke. Jack’s just being dramatic, taking everything the wrong way. He does that often. That’s why he doesn’t do this soft, kind, slow sort of romance.

“I guess you have always been there. More than anybody else.”

His heart leaps into his throat. “More than your mates?”

“You are my mate,” says Ralph, nudging his elbow. “In fact, you’re probably the only one who’s actually here.”

And the only one who fancies you, Jack thinks. That’s probably not true, either, because Ralph is ridiculously perfect and anybody who doesn’t fancy him is either blind or stupid.

At the beginning, he had always tried to deny his feelings, playing them off as just some childish need to impress everybody. But they eventually became an unbearable weight to carry. He can still remember the night when he finally admitted it to himself and the aching, horrible feeling of knowing that Ralph will never quite view him the same. Twelve-year-old Jack would have given up. He would have started hating Ralph instead. It’s easier to bundle all of his positive emotions into a huge, negative one.

But he’s put so much effort into this relationship, platonic or not. Letting it go would mean that he’s wasted over a year on nothing. That’s a lot of time.

Anyway, he begins to think his efforts have paid off as Ralph smiles at him, smile glittering.

“We have English together next.” Ralph’s is now securely pressed against Jack’s arm. “What do you say we go somewhere afterwards?”

Without even thinking, Jack loops his arm around Ralph’s shoulders. It could be viewed in a friendly gesture. Just Jack comforting somebody who has just gone through a breakup. But there’s unspoken meaning to the touch of Ralph’s soft skin. He freezes for a second, shocked at his own actions, but it vanishes when Ralph melts into him a little more.

“Yeah,” Jack says, smiling a little. “That sounds good.”

 

*

It only takes two weeks. Over the course of fourteen days, most of which are spent together, something changes. Jack doesn’t feel the slightest bit out of place when Ralph leans in and brushes his lips against his. It’s so soft and careful that Jack tries not to move, tries not to ruin it with his careless, destructive habits. He limits his hands to a light touch, fingers reaching to slide through blonde hair. When they break apart, Ralph looks unsure, and Jack waits for the dreaded apology and expects Ralph to gather his stuff and leave. He doesn’t. He stays put, smiling softly.

They don’t label it for another few weeks. There’s no words to describe whatever they have. They just float by, holding hands, snogging in Ralph’s (rather large) bed. Jack wants to tell everyone, brag about it, possessively leave purple marks all over Ralph’s golden skin until they become permanent. It’s Ralph who dissuades him, claiming that he doesn’t want a reputation as some slut who goes between guys, and Jack knows just how highly Ralph is regarded. His reputation is precious to him. So, he just agrees, thrilled that this boy can be bothered to return the feelings, relishing the feeling of Ralph’s hot mouth trailing across his body.

It works for a while, too. He’s too wrapped up in this wonderous feeling to ever consider that there might be a bump in the road. He’s never been in a relationship, not like this. Sure, he’s fucked girls in the back of a car, been sucked off in the bathroom of a nightclub, been fucked in the upstairs bedroom of his house, but he’s never actually experienced … this. He’s never woken up next to somebody, wrapped his arms around them, pressed a kiss to their bare shoulder. He’s never felt himself so utterly wrapped up in somebody else’s existence that it physically hurts.

It's more than he had hoped for.

Obviously, the eventual  _ what are we? _ conversation swings around. It’s met with a smooth conclusion – boyfriends.

Even though exams are getting scarily closer, Jack finds himself revising less, more focused on his relationship. He’s much more interested in how Ralph’s feels underneath him, wonderful and tight and perfect, and he’s a lot less interested in History and English and more interested in peeling all of Ralph’s clothes off every time they are alone.

One day, they are breathlessly tangled against each other, basking in the afterglow, when the first inklings of negativity begin to crawl in. Jack would never have thought it possible. It starts when Ralph says something about going out with his friends. Jack offers to tag along and is met with a sigh.

“I can’t. They’ll wonder why I’ve brought you along. I mean, no offense, but you don’t exactly fit in with my crowd.”

Jack wants to argue and say that he can be liked if he wants to be. He just doesn’t care about impressing any of the shallow twats at college. Instead, he lets it slide, murmuring a quiet agreement.

The next comes with when he’s sat with his friends - Maurice and Bill and Robert, who he had completely abandoned in the past few weeks – and one of them asks. They are bound to get suspicious. Jack grins to himself, goes to spill just how happy he is, when he realises that they still aren’t telling anybody. It’s been five weeks of sneaking around, holding hands only to be sure if there’s nobody they know around, barely even kissing goodbye in public. Sure, Ralph makes up for it in private, but Jack can’t help but feel like the blonde boy is ashamed or something. And that sits less than comfortably.

Jack never asks him about it, which is probably a mistake. All of these petty things will piss him off until everything is a massive thing. Communication is vital in a relationship, apparently, but Ralph never seems to enjoy talking. On the rare occasions Jack approaches a sensitive topic, Ralph’s lips are on his, and they get a little distracted.

And in the grand scheme of things, these problems are nothing. It’s still Ralph – the hopelessly gorgeous blonde who has caught Jack’s attention from their first class together. He’s still kind and soft. He stills laughs softly, faking exasperation, when Jack comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist. He tries not to care that Ralph’s still keeping them a huge secret, as if what they’re doing is wrong. Instead, he focuses on the sparkle in Ralph’s eyes and the aching, overwhelming desire Jack feels for him.

It’s not all want. He feels waves of affection towards his boyfriend, random realisations that he loves him. Before, he had sort of ignored it. Now, as Ralph curves his spine and rolls his hips in Jack’s lap, that’s all he can think. His fingers are digging into Ralph’s hipbones, probably to the point of pain. If it hurts, Ralph doesn’t say anything, letting out soft moans into his hair.

An insistent echo of iloveyou is being thrown around his head. Jack makes sure his lips are pressed tightly together, pushing his nose into Ralph’s shoulder. He lets out occasional groans and noises, no words. He’s scared of what will come out. Even though he wants to recite paragraphs about how fucking flawless Ralph is right now and how good he feels.

The movements become quicker. Sloppier. Ralph’s long, drawn out moans become shorter and more desperate, and Jack can tell it’s not long until it will be over. His breathing becomes laboured and he slides his fingers up Ralph’s tanned, smooth back. Jack wants to lean forwards and dig his teeth into his collarbone, but he represses that urge, because he’s uncertain around Ralph, never wanting to ruin anything.

Excitedly, he awaits that rush of euphoria, pressing kiss after kiss into Ralph’s neck and feeling the vibrations of the moans and groans on his lips.

As he comes, Ralph kisses him, shoving his tongue into Jack’s mouth, surprisingly rough for somebody of such a gentle nature. His noises are swallowed and his movements become less frantic and eager, slowing to a steady movement. Jack thrusts his hips upwards, feeling his own climax dangerously close. He follows not long after Ralph, not breaking the kiss as he lurches forwards and groaning loudly. They don’t break apart for what feels like hours. Jack slides his hands down Ralph’s back and onto his rear, which is still firmly pressed against him. Once or twice, their teeth hit, but otherwise, Jack lets himself become lost in the mindless kissing.

When Ralph gracefully clambers out of his lap, Jack is still breathless. He’s forgotten about any of the little, completely irrelevant issues which were nagging at him earlier.

“What you up to this afternoon?” Ralph asks, having already composed himself.

“Friends, probably,” shrugs Jack. He is careful to leave out a certain name.

He still spends time with Roger, as much as he can, because they’re still friends despite Jack’s relationship status. They don’t say much to each other, and Jack finds it so relaxing, being able to just lie back and not have to worry about anything other than keeping the window open for Roger to smoke. Occasionally, he notices odd things, like however he mentions Ralph, Roger will grow overly sarcastic and unfriendly. Maybe he’s still hung up about the kiss. That was six weeks ago now. Honestly, Jack can’t remember what was so lovely about kissing Roger. What made him want to so badly?

“What time does your lesson end?”

“I’ll probably end up going out with friends afterwards,” Ralph says.

“Are you, uh … gonna tell them?”

He pauses, acting as if he’s thinking, but Jack can already tell that he’s made that decision by the determined glint in his eyes. When he shakes his head, Jack pushes away all his disappointment.

“It’s too soon, baby,” Ralph says. He leans forwards and pecks Jack’s lips. “You understand, right?”

No, I don’t fucking understand, is what he wants to say. He wants to fix Ralph with a glare and say that him and his ex were over weeks and weeks ago. He should be allowed to move on, and it’s not like they had anything serious. Eric and Ralph were on and off for months, and then when they finally got together, everything was finished within another month.

“Yeah. Sure.” Jack pulls Ralph down, wrapping his arms around his neck. “When can we become … you know. Public?”

“When the timings right,” Ralph says, smiling, nibbling gently on Jack’s bottom lip.

Jack wonders when the timing will ever be right. Is it not right now? From the times he’s seen Eric, the twin has been laughing and joking, looking completely fine without Ralph holding his hand. He’s probably moved on now, because Eric goes through guys like his brother goes through girls.

Jack just sighs and lets it go, once again.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“You aren’t fooling anybody, you know,” says Roger.

This is the first time they’ve seen each other this week, having been so caught up with everything else, and there’s some quote about how absence makes the heart grow fonder which rings through his head. He had missed being told things rather than asked. He had missed Roger’s presence in general, although he would never admit that. Emotional confessions are far behind them.

“What?” Jack asks carelessly.

“With Golden Boy. It’s pretty obvious.” Roger doesn’t look happy at this information, but when does he ever look truly happy? A scowl seems to have scarred his face now, putting it in a permanently resentful expression.

Jack frowns. Ralph is certainly careful enough when it comes to displays of affection. It’s impossible for anybody to tell. But he often forgets that Roger has an unsettling talent at being able to decipher people.

“How’s it obvious?”

“Well, the fact that you never spend time with m – us anymore.”

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean anything. Maurice pisses me off.”

“Yeah, me too,” Roger says, barely hiding the sharp edge to his voice, “but I don’t just disappear.”

“You get on with him. Robert’s in your Chemistry.”

“Doesn’t mean I like him.”

“There’s Bill and that Percival kid.”

“Yeah. Just my kind of people,” Roger says.

His voice is sharp and his words intended to be wounding, but Jack just grins. Roger, in all his angsty, dark finesse, couldn’t be more different from the other boys. He looks thrown when Jack smiles across at him, but reluctantly returns the gesture, just enough to make his eyes twinkle.

“So, are you together, or just shagging?”

For a second, he thinks about lying, fabricating some impressive story to dissuade Roger from asking all these questions. But there’s no point. He’ll see right through Jack’s excuses, no matter how much effort he puts into creating them.

“Is it bad that I don’t even know?” he answers, one hundred percent truthfully.

He awaits a reaction. Some sort of gasp, or scowl, or laugh. But no matter how much he studies Roger’s expression, it remains impassive, but still so full of judgement. It’s rather uncomfortable, the silence that follows his statement. It feels like he’s part of some psychology experiment, like Roger’s doing a case study on his behaviour. It’s not that unusual to imagine his friend taking notes on him. Jack wants to ask what conclusions he’s made so far, because he’s not sure what’s happening either.

“I mean, we are together. That’s what … he said. He doesn’t want to tell anyone,” Jack tells him.

Roger frowns. “Why not?”

“Don’t know. Maybe he’s ashamed of me.”

Something flares up in Roger’s expression. His lips part, as if he’s about to talk, but something gets the better of him. He instead just lets out a long, tired sigh.

“Can you blame him, though? I mean, I’m not exactly nice. Nobody likes me.” He’s known this for a while, yet saying it out loud makes it suddenly more real. He’s surprised that Ralph even bothered to maintain a friendship with him.

With every word, Roger’s face is sinking deeper into a scowl. Even more than usual, that is. He sighs again, for what must be the fifth time today.

“You need to figure that out, then.” He is reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. Jack wonders how many packs he must go through a week, and concludes that Roger smokes too much, too often. He doesn’t say anything, though, because he hates how uncomfortable Roger looks when he’s empty-handed. “Ask him about it.”

“I tried. He just … distracts me.”

“Suffer in silence, then.”

“But I don’t –“

“Jack,” cuts off Roger, causing him to look up indignantly. Being interrupted has always pissed him off. “It’s your relationship. Not mine.”

Jack wants to remind Roger that they’re friends. Or whatever. He’s supposed to be able to voice his many concerns and receive goodhearted advice. That’s the issue with Roger, isn’t it? Jack’s spent months being his friend, learning all about him, breaking through the cold, mysterious exterior to still be unsure if they’ve even surpassed the label of ‘mates’.

Instead, he chooses to resume the silence they were bathed in, focusing all of his attention onto his phone. It’s difficult to pretend that Roger isn’t staring at him. Jack barely manages to resist the temptation of looking back.

* * *

Everything unravels at the seams two weeks afterwards.  Jack had been waiting for disaster to strike and he’s somewhat confused as to why it waited so long. Usually, everything shatters within a couple of weeks. Things have been fantastic recently, and maybe the universe wanted to him to have a taste at unadulterated happiness before it was ripped away.

It’s the tail end of January when there’s a mention of a party. Jack wonders why he’s always being told about them, as if he loves them or something, and it’s only when Ralph suggests going together that Jack suddenly wants to go. He doesn’t mean together as in together, he just means in each other’s company, but Jack’s fine with that. They can get drunk together and have a laugh, like friends, no kissing or touching involved. Maybe they will find privacy later that night and then Ralph will be up for other stuff.

It throws Jack when Roger doesn’t show up before college on Wednesday. Jack waits in his living room, flicking idly through channels, until two hours have passed and Roger still hasn’t arrived. He doesn’t even get a text. Jack can’t figure out why their routine – however fragmented in had become in recent months – has suddenly vanished. Wednesday mornings were all they had left. It’s oddly melancholy to watch that all dissipate.

And he’s angry. He’s not fully aware of what he’s doing until his finger is pressing ‘call’ on Roger’s contact. The phone rings and Jack prepares himself, but his script flies out of his head the second there’s a low, “Hello?” on the other end.

“Hi.” It’s silent for a few seconds until Jack remembers why he called in the first place. “Where the fuck were you?”

“Right now? I’m in Asda. Buying toothpaste, if you want specifics.” Jack can feel the waves of undisguised sarcasm radiating through the phone.

“No,” he sighs. “You didn’t show up on Wednesday. Where were you?”

“In bed, most likely. You know how college is,” he quips, keeping his tone overly casual, to the point of becoming tiring. He’s probably bitter about something and this is him pretending everything is fine. “It’s tiring, isn’t it?”

“You haven’t been in for, like, ages.”

“I have. You just haven’t seen me.”

“Why not?”

“Must’ve slipped past or something. Apparently, I blend in, and you've been distracted recently." 

Jack growls under his breath, frustrated at not being able to see Roger’s facial expression. He’s in the dark as to what the other boy is feeling right now. Is he being funny? Is he being bitter? Is he being neither of those things and Jack’s reading too much into a few sentences?

“Roger,” Jack says eventually, really hating how desperate his voice sounds. When he speaks again, he ensures his voice is more secure, unable to slip into anything similar to that strangled, pained tone.

“Which toothpaste do you recommend?” Roger asks. There’s a banging noise in the background, presumably Roger throwing said toothpaste back onto the shelf.

“Never really had a preference.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t matter, does it?” Roger laughs bitterly. “In the end, nothing really matters. You can put so much effort into something and it’ll apart eventually.”

Jack pauses, furrowing his brow, unsure whether their conversation is still about toothpaste or not. There’s probably some hidden meaning behind his words but Jack can’t figure them out. Not over the phone, anyway.

“Why didn’t you show up?”

“I didn’t know it was a requirement.”

“It’s not.” He’s becoming increasingly frustrated now, but he knows that getting angry at Roger just results in an equal amount of resentment being returned, and he’s developed a sort of attachment to this notion of friendship. Enough attachment to tread carefully. “I thought it was, like, a thing.”

“Yeah, it was, when we still spoke.”

“I do still talk to you.”

“Yeah, once every two weeks, you’ll show up and have a fag with me. A bit of a change from before, isn’t it?” It’s silent, and Roger lets out a long, wavering sigh. He’s been sighing too much lately, like he’s constantly angry. As if regretting his words, Roger concludes them with a quick, “Never mind, Merridew. I’ll see you around.”

He doesn’t see Roger around. Not for a while, actually. And maybe that’s why tension builds to the point of exploding, and maybe that’s a factor which contributes to the downfall of everything.

He feels like he’s living two lives. Two different worlds with two different people. In one life, it’s filled with honesty and real life and all of that dark shit. On the other side, however, it’s glowing and shining and unrealistically perfect, like something out of a fairy-tale when the grass is green and the sun is shining.

“What are you thinking about?” Ralph asks.

Jack blinks, his eyes finding his boyfriend, who he hadn’t realised was watching him. He’s in the midst of getting changed, and Jack lets his eyes fall on the exposed skin of his legs, a predatory grin unfurling.

“You.” Jack reaches over and pulls Ralph close, fingers running up his smooth skin. “And how gorgeous you look.”

Ralph says something about needing to get changed. It’s without any real enthusiasm, and he lets himself be dragged into a kiss. “I’ve got study group,” he adds, words muffled by lips. “Peter will be –“

“Peter can wait,” Jack says, pulling back to look Ralph dead in the eyes, pulling the blonde boy down so that they are both on the bed. Ralph is on top, which he doesn’t seem to like, and Jack finds himself being rolled over, legs framing his hips. “Christ, you’re perfect,” he adds, more to himself that anybody, but still relishing the glimmer in Ralph’s smile as he hears them. “Really fucking perfect.”

“Make it quick,” murmurs Ralph. “I’ve got to meet Peter.”

“Mention Peter one more time and I’ll make sure you’re here for hours,” Jack says. He venturing to new areas now. Usually, sex consists of compliments and praise, never any of these controlling comments which he desires to say. He’s always liked it, the whole control thing. He likes being in charge of anything, not just sex. All he can do is hope that Ralph will understand.

Jack dips his fingers dangerously close to the waistband of Ralph's boxers. Ralph groans, pushing his hips up to try and gain more friction, clearly discontent with Jack’s teasing, who is doing it just to drive him mad. He’s not sure why it’s so satisfying to watch Ralph become flustered. He leans back and admires the sight underneath him. Ralph’s hair is dishevelled and his cheeks a little bit flushed. Something about _perfect_ bounces around his head, but he remembers he’s already said that, so he says the first other thing which comes to mind.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words slipping out before he can register them. 

Then, shock sinks in, and both of them freeze. The pink in Ralph’s cheeks drains away; he seems unable to form words. Jack waits a few seconds, because hopefully, when the shock has faded, Ralph will warm to the words and say them back. 

This doesn’t happen. He waits for a good five seconds, staring into panicked eyes, until he lets out a quiet, “Fuck,” because he might have just ruined everything, this whole thing, with three words.

Jack pulls away, swearing again for good measure. Ralph sits up, guarded, looking confused and sad and a bunch of other emotions. Too many emotions. They’re all negative, though. Not one glimmer of happiness or excitement makes its way past the panic shielding Ralph’s expression. It’s surprising that, for someone of such benevolence, the words seem to strike a wrong note.

“Really?” he says finally.

Well, it’s out there now. Might as well continue. “Yeah. I guess.”

“It’s been a month, Jack.”

Six weeks, actually, Jack aches to correct. One and half months. Anyway, his feelings had been gradually building up since their first year at college, since the first couple of conversations. Hell, since the first time Ralph smiled at him. It may have been a month for Ralph, but it’s been a year for Jack. And at that, a long year, filled with jealousy and disappointment.

He decides to leave out this detail. Ralph doesn’t know quite the extent of Jack’s feelings. He doesn’t know just how many times Jack had imagined their first kiss, how magical he anticipated it to be, with fireworks in the background and music accompanying them. Like a girl, he had dreamt up many fantasies, and one of them was certainly the _I love you_ moment. It certainly hadn’t gone like this. 

“I’m sorry. Just … forget I said that.” Jack sighs.

“Um, yeah.” Ralph pushes himself off the bed, pulling his trousers on with incredible pace. Tanned skin disappears underneath black jeans and Jack watches bitterly. “I have to meet Peter now. Uh, let yourself out, okay? Mum’ll be home soon.”

Before he darts out the door, Ralph leans forwards and brushes his lips – very slightly – against Jack’s in a goodbye gesture. It’s a kiss, but the touch of their lips is empty, filled with nothing other than uncertainty. Then he is gone.

Jack flops back onto the bed, his head in his hands. There are many words he wants to say. Big, long words which would exactly capture the sinking disappointment and burning annoyance, both of which are burning in his stomach. Instead, he says “Fuck,” for the third time, this time whispered into his palms. 

He lets himself out, hating the steady click of the door shut behind him, knowing that he’s locked out of the house now and the next time he goes back will be spectacularly awkward. 

There’s nowhere to go. Usually, he would text Roger, find out what he’s doing. It’s only when he fishes for his phone from his pocket and clicks on Roger’s contact, he remembers that their last conversation hadn’t ended particularly well. That boy is probably icy with him too. So, resentfully, Jack just meanders home, taking several pointless detours just to avoid the sight of his plain, boring, lonely bedroom.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Roger,” Jack says, surprised, more of a statement than a greeting. He hadn’t expected to see him at this party, yet seeing Roger for the first time in two weeks is like being plunged into cold water without having chance to prepare. 

The dark-haired boy snaps his head up defensively, however, the tension in his body melts away when he sees Jack stood at the door. Jack mirrors his expression, relieved and half-smiling. The warm feeling is unfamiliar to both of them. It’s something similar to the catapulting joy which he had felt when Ralph kissed him for the first time, but he’s trying not to think about Ralph at all, because the blonde boy is dancing downstairs without a care in the world.

“Roger,” he repeats, this time with a lot more affection flooding his voice. He moves towards the bed which Roger is sat on. “You didn’t tell me you were coming.”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Got dragged here.” Roger quirks a small smile. “You know how it is.” 

“Yeah, I do,” Jack says, grinning back, feeling slightly breathless. “Who with?”

All previous conflict has been forgotten. That bicker over the phone feels like ages ago – it  _ was  _ ages ago – and Roger is his friend again, his  _ best  _ friend, the one he can rely on, the one who he’s told things he’s never told anybody else. 

He’s not about to apologise for leaving them. Apologies aren’t his thing, but he does feel hints of guilt, sparks of sympathy settling in his stomach. 

“The usual,” Roger shrugs. “What about you?”

Truthfully, he had come by choice, propelled by the thought that the night would be with Ralph and nobody else. Obviously, Jack forgets that Ralph is friends with nearly everyone, and this party has been one, big downward spiral from the moment he stepped into the door. He felt like a kid on a playground, watching Ralph play with his better friends, being told he wasn’t allowed to join in. 

“Ralph,” he says. 

“Yeah? How’s that going?” Roger’s voice is cautious, ready to slip into harsh and biting at a moment’s notice. 

“Shit,” he admits, sitting on the edge of the bed, not close enough for his liking. “Can I have one?” he adds, gesturing to the packet of cigarettes in Roger’s hand. 

“You know, you smoke a lot.” Roger battles a grin, only just managing to win. “For someone who doesn’t smoke, that is.”

Roger flicks his lighter and Jack hovers the end of the cigarette on the flame, leaving it there a little longer than necessary. He stares at it burn, immensely conscious of dark eyes on him, refusing to look up and meet the gaze. God knows what he’ll do. There are endless possibilities, in an upstairs bedroom at a house party, whilst he’s pissed off about something. Whenever he is annoyed, he does something stupid, as is his coping mechanism. 

“You’re a bad influence,” Jack retorts eventually, feeling his own lips curl into a grin around the filter. 

Now he’s with Roger, he’s somewhat reassured, so different from his previous bitterness. Already, the isolation he had felt doesn’t seem like  _ that  _ big of a deal, because Roger’s here now, and he’s tucking the lighter back into his pocket with long, bruised fingers like usual. The fact that Ralph, his boyfriend (even though Jack’s beginning to question that label), is downstairs with some strangers doesn’t grate against him like it usually would have. 

That’s a strange sensation. Jealousy and Ralph seem to come hand in hand.

Jack feels obliged to look up now. His deliberate avoidance is growing obvious. 

Almost immediately, the first thought which strikes him is  _ soft _ . It’s not something he would have ever thought possible for Roger to achieve. He’s quiet, harsh, disturbing, just generally unfriendly. All of those qualities which Jack has gotten used to have seemingly vanished, never to be seen again, hidden by this staring stranger who is sat against the headboard, where Roger was sat only a few seconds ago. 

Behind the throwing gentleness, Jack recognises a spark of, barely contained, emotion. The rest of his face, apart from the slight smile, remains slack. 

“What?” Jack says eventually, uncertainty shattering his defensive front.

The other boy snags the piercing on his bottom lip thoughtfully and Jack waits for an answer. One never comes. He is still staring, waiting, curiosity nagging at him, when he repeats himself and makes his voice more forceful this time.

But still, Roger just fixes him with a look. A confusing look. There’s a disconcerting wisdom in his eyes, like he can see all of Jack’s secrets. Not that there is many, to be honest. Roger knows the majority.

Jack wants to snap. Say something nasty. Roger’s is surely used to being at the receiving end of Jack’s unkind words.

For a second, like the good boyfriend he is, Jack wonders about Ralph. He is probably still dancing, carefree, grinning and jumping around madly. Jack thinks  _ won’t he wonder where I am _ ? That is until he remembers how disinterested Ralph was in his whereabouts. Jack could have gone home and Ralph probably wouldn’t have noticed.

Roger sighs, breaking the stare and brining Jack’s attention back to him. “Christ. Must have had more to drink than I thought.”

“You don’t look drunk.”

“Don’t feel it, either,” he replies, shrugging his shoulder carelessly. 

“I’ve never seen you get drunk.” Whilst letting his gaze turn studious, Jack leaves the cigarette balanced between his lips, seeing how long he can drag on it before it starts to burn his throat. “I  _ mean _ ,” he adds, sensing Roger about to argue, “I’ve never seen you get completely fucked up. You’ve seen me … pretty drunk. But you never, like … lose your cool.” 

“You think I’m cool?” Roger says mockingly. 

Jack narrows his eyes, but he can’t help but grin. Roger is smiling, too, humour creasing his cheeks.

He should go downstairs now, back to the crowd of people. He’s caught up with Roger for at least five minutes now and his cigarette is burning down to a stub. This catch-up session is not enough, but, as Jack keeps reminding himself, he came  _ with Ralph.  _

He waits until the flame extinguishes, looking at it sadly. 

“Should probably go … back downstairs,” he tries, lamely gesturing to the door, which is half-open. 

“Go and see Golden Boy, right?” Roger asks sarcastically, any genuine humour melting away. 

Jack nods. “Yeah. You know, I did … come here with him. And I’m with him.” 

Instead of doing as he says, he decides to start moving slowly closer. So slowly that it’s barely noticeable.

“Yeah,” Roger says, but his voice is breathless and soft, void of its usual sarcasm. He’s noticed Jack’s very, very slow movements, and reaches up to place his fingers on Jack’s cheek, tracing a line over the sharp angle. “You probably should.”

“He’s waiting,” Jack murmurs, even though he’s  _ not  _ waiting. Those words don’t stop him from placing a hand over Roger’s, pushing the cold skin further onto his cheek, and Jack’s not sure who he’s trying to dissuade.

“Shouldn’t keep him waiting, right?” Roger says, undertones of mischief creeping up into his voice. He knows that Jack doesn’t want to go back downstairs. 

Soon, Jack is so close he can feel every breath the dark-haired boy takes, hot and tainted with tobacco, much like his own. 

“Are you going to kiss me again?” Roger asks him, breathing uneven. Does he sound hopeful, or is Jack’s mind just running wild? 

Jack grasps either side of a bony face, pushing his thumbs over sharp divots and angles. He can’t quite figure out what it is which is tugging at his chest, what that intense feeling is. Perhaps a couple of drinks has had more of an effect on him than he thought.

Driven by something warm and unfamiliar, he kisses Roger. 

The collision of their mouths is more teeth than lips but Jack quickly regains control, keeping the kisses chaste and light, his tongue only occasionally darting out and running across his teeth, just to feel Roger’s grip on his cheek tighten. Their mouths roll comfortably against each other for a few seconds, relishing the wet, secure warmth. Jack is surprised to be content with this. There’s no overmastering desire to slide his hands down further, leave marks on already-damaged skin. Sure, he  _ wants  _ to, and his body is already responding to those thoughts, but it’s not a need. Kissing Roger is perfectly satisfying. 

Whenever with Ralph, his desire for release trumps any romantic afflictions. When was the last time they  _ just _ kissed? When was the last time, or any time, when Jack had been  _ this  _ fine with gentle, slow movements?  

Jack wants to blame it on Ralph, as he usually does when it comes to feelings, but he really can’t, because he didn’t lean in because of Ralph. He leant in because he wanted to, and his boyfriend being distant towards him plays a very small part in this. Guilt envelops him. He’s supposed to be entirely devoted to somebody else. He’s spent an entire year trying to win over Ralph’s affections and, finally, he’s got them. There’s a blonde boy who Jack can now call  _ his _ after months of agonizing over unrequited feelings.

And yet, here he is. 

He tries to argue that it’s just a kiss. Ralph’s dirty dancing with half the rugby team downstairs, so it’s only  _ fair,  _ right?

_ Except,  _ says that voice, that voice of reason which has been absent most of his life,  _ it’s not  _ just  _ a kiss.  _

Jack’s kissed people before – mediocre, sloppy, rushed kissing – and that had been  _ just  _ kissing. He’s fucked people before, and that had meant considerably less than this does. He has never felt this amount of affection flowing through nothing but lips. 

Roger soon grows impatient, sliding his fingers through red hair and tilting his head to the side, pulling Jack as close as possible. This is certainly a change from their first kiss – it had been one-sided, all Jack and no Roger. 

The position is awkward. Roger is sat upright and Jack’s using the headboard to support himself. He wants to move, tug Roger down by his legs, push their fronts flush together, grind up onto him and bite marks onto his neck.

He doesn’t. He’s scared that any sudden movements will startle him into sense.

Bizarrely, Jack can’t deter his brain constantly reassuring him  _ this is right. This is fine.  _  And even though betraying his feelings and this is definitely not right, this feels much more natural, filled with imperfections. It’s not faultless. There are hitting teeth, colliding noses, accidental jolts forward. Jack always thought of himself as a good kisser, and it is alien to feel so unpractised and messy, not being able to catch up the increasing desperation of the lips on his.

The kisses gradually grow in their intensity, until there’s virtually no gentle movements left. Jack’s too caught up in the feeling to acknowledge the constant chant of _this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong_ _this is wrong_ in his head. It’s not leaving one trace of meaning behind. It’s sort of faded, like he’s underwater, and somebody is shouting from the surface. 

It’s Roger who instigates the movement. He slides down, tugging Jack with him, so that Jack’s body is pushing his tight against the mattress. For the first time in eighteen whole years, he is completely fine with somebody taking charge. It’s quite relieving, actually, not having the constant pressure of having to make a right decision. There’s Roger’s decision, and that’s it.

This certainly makes it easier; Jack can now press his chest against Roger’s, so tight that it feels almost suffocating, or maybe that’s just because he’s not had chance to breathe properly since their lips met. Jack’s hands venture down, smoothing over Roger’s midsection, thumbs smoothing under his shirt and pushing into his hip bones. The boy underneath him responds to rough, unyielding movements, volleying back an equal amount of force and digging his front teeth into Jack’s lip. It stings enough for Jack to think that it’s drawn blood. He must make some sort of pained noise and, as if in apology, Roger runs his tongue across where he had bitten.

Many things are different from the first party. There’s significantly less alcohol in his bloodstream, for starters, but he’s still making stupid decisions. It must just be a bad habit. Jack’s been doing detrimental things since he was fourteen. Why stop now? Secondly, he’s being propelled by something other than anger and it’s aggravating not being able to figure out what it is. He can come up with some excuse, sure, however, deep down, he knows that being pissed off at Ralph has nothing to do with this. 

He’s never kissed Ralph like this, with such precision and affection. Honestly, he’s never kissed anyone like this. It’s bizarre that he’s decided to do this  _ now _ , now that he’s chained to the confinements of a relationship and all. To make it worse, the person he’s doing it with his only friend, and if this goes south … well, Jack will be stuck alone. 

Maybe he should have done this before Ralph had kissed him for the first time. Maybe – just fucking maybe – he should have acknowledged these feelings sooner, kissed Roger like this first, figured out that all of that confusing affection wasn’t just the desire to impress. 

Here it is: Jack Merridew’s fantastic talent at fucking things up. 

This isn’t good. None of this comes close to  _ good  _ \- it’s terrible and unkind and deviant – but there’s a whit of exhilaration and adrenaline which is pumping through his bloodstream, pounding against his pulse point with such force that Jack’s surprised his pale skin hasn’t ruptured. Somewhere downstairs is his enticing, blonde sort of angel, who will be untroubled, completely oblivious to Jack’s untimely betrayal, but to make it worse, at this moment in time, Jack couldn’t care less about what his boyfriend thinks. All his mind can focus on is the boy under him, how hot his mouth is, how cold his skin is underneath Jack’s unforgiving fingers.

Although the Roger’s hips are muffled by layers of fabric, Jack still groans when the other boy rolls up into him. There’s no space left between them. Every bump and dip of Roger’s torso becomes like his own.

It’s Jack that breaks it. Roger chases his lips the short distance that he moves away, eyes clouded with something unfamiliar. As he pulls away, he brushes a long strand of saliva which connects his and Roger’s lips. He still keeps close, pressing him down onto the bed, close enough to feel hot breathing against his cheek. That’s probably a mistake. The absence of Roger’s mouth leaves him unsatisfied and cold and all he wants to do is lean forwards and recapture him in a kiss.

“Doors open,” he mumbles in explanation. 

“Shut it, then,” Roger replies, just as quietly. When Jack doesn’t move, he sighs, wiggling out from under Jack’s weight and does it himself. The door shuts with a harsh click, entrapping them together, and Roger begins to return to the bed.

“Wait,” says Jack, sitting up, gesturing to Roger’s shirt. “You’re a little overdressed.” 

He rolls his eyes, pulling his shirt off gracefully. Jack’s seen him shirtless before, but seeing him again brings about a grin, and he beckons for Roger to come back, reconnecting their lips. His desperate hands snake up Roger’s back, feeling the bumps of scars, feeling the barely healed marks. The other boy automatically twitches at this unexpected contact, but relaxes quickly, melting into Jack’s touch.

Roger tugs at Jack’s shirt impatiently, only breaking their lips when necessary. When Jack is shirtless below him, Roger’s dark eyes become glued to the freckles which splatter against his skin, and his follows the gaze with his mouth. He kisses along Jack’s collarbone, his mouth pleasantly warm, leaving a wet trail. He relaxes, but flinches back to reality when Roger scrapes his teeth along the sensitive skin of his neck, and Jack’s hands fly from Roger’s back to his hair.

“Don’t leave a mark,” he warns, not wanting to have to explain this to Ralph, who will be waiting for him downstairs. Is he wondering where Jack is? Probably not. He’s probably still jumping around with half of the rugby team, laughing carelessly, innocently.

Roger follows his request – strangely, because Roger has never really taken orders before – and kisses back up to Jack’s mouth. Their lips slot together once again. He can’t seem to summon to willpower to think anymore; Jack’s trapped in a haze of desire, wanting nothing more than this boy. Roger. Roger Miller, his best friend, who is making his jeans feel spectacularly tight as he rolls his hips on top of him. 

The bed is soft as Jack is pushed backwards, and he struggles to remember whose house this is. Honestly, he’s struggling to think about anything other than Roger at this moment in time, because he looks gorgeous right now, breathless and aroused, pushing back his hair so that Jack can see directly into his eyes. After he regains a steady breathing pattern, Jack leans up and resumes the kissing, except this time, it jumps straight into the heavy, frenzied movements that they both crave. 

Roger tugs harder at his hair, the sharp pain pulling him into reality, remembering that the boy in his lap isn’t the boy he’s supposedly in love with. He is moving his mouth desperately against somebody who is just a friend. 

_ Just a friend.  _ Shit. 

Jack’s not an expert on friendships, but he’s can say for certain that snogging isn’t a common activity for people who are  _ friends _ . And he’s risking a lot by doing this. He’s risking Ralph, he’s risking this friendship with Roger, he’s risking his own mental wellbeing. This is driving him mad. He wants to go further and dip his fingers underneath the waistband of Roger’s trousers. If he doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to explode. 

It would feel good to just let go, let himself explode, unleash everything. Maybe all of those thoughts – dark, sadistic thoughts which he  _ knows  _ Roger has too – will spark a light, set them both on fire. Then they can continue this whilst blistering, and they would burn, but they would burn with their bodies intertwined. Jack would burn whilst sweaty and breathless and bruised and it would be  _ perfect _ .

Clumsy fingers begin to work on removing Roger’s belt, who clambers out of Jack’s lap for a second, making short work of the task. As Jack watches him slide his jeans down smooth legs, Jack tries to hide his surprise and admiration – knowing how much Roger would enjoy that – and instead smirks, gesturing to the growing tent in his boxers.

“It’s flattering how attractive you find me.”

“Fuck off,” Roger says breathlessly. “Your turn.”

He pulls off his own jeans quickly, going to pull Roger back into his lap, when the other boy stops. His lip is clamped between his teeth and he stares at Jack’s lanky legs with a faint smile, and suddenly, Jack feels incredibly self-conscious about every imperfection. Roger’s gaze morphs from admiring to calculating, and when he finally reconnects himself with Jack, they are flipped over again. Not that Jack minds. He can feel Roger’s body much better like this, body framed by raised knees. Nails dig uncomfortably into his back and, when Jack rolls his hips forwards, they drag down his shoulders. Red marks are probably left in their wake, because there’s nothing particularly soft about these movements. 

And even when he is pulled free of his boxers, Jack can’t quite summon enough guilt to stop. 

 


End file.
